


A Thousand-One Stories

by springty



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Multi, Multiple Timelines, Non-Chronological, Polyamory, Reincarnation, inspired by ghost quartet, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 06:17:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20541479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springty/pseuds/springty
Summary: “Or someone that I used to beOr someone that I will beOr someone that I am right now”-I Don’t Know, Ghost QuartetIn every life, it’s the three of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is inspired by Dave Malloy’s Ghost Quartet, not in plot but just the nature of the multiple lifetimes and everything, so if you’re familiar with it you might know what kind of weirdness to expect. and if you’re not then you should listen to it because it’s very good

_United States of America_  
_ Present Day_

Pierre sat in the library, books and papers spread out in front of him, his laptop open. God, how he needed to get this paper done, but his mind was anywhere but. All because of the man sitting beside him, with thick, dark hair and a stern expression. He was handsome, of course, incredibly so, but that wasn’t why he had Pierre so severely distracted. Well, perhaps it didn’t help, but it was far from the main reason. No, Pierre was distracted by him because he recognized him.

Andrei.

Of course it had to be Andrei. It was always Andrei, wasn’t it? It was always Andrei; it had always been Andrei. Perhaps, Pierre dared to hope, this time it would end differently.

If he could even work up the nerve to speak to him, that is. They were in the library, and he didn’t want to disturb anyone. Andrei himself looked rather fixated on his reading, jaw clenched and brows furrowed- his usual expression. And then there was the biggest problem: what if Andrei didn’t even remember him? Pierre wanted nothing more than to speak to him like the old friend that he was. The thought that Andrei might not remember him as such made his heart ache. What could he do?

Pierre didn’t realize he was staring. Or rather, he didn’t realize he was staring until Andrei looked up briefly and made eye contact with him. _Oh, god_. He had caught him staring at him, and if he didn’t remember him he must’ve thought he was so weird, and if Andrei thought that of him like everyone else did, then he wouldn’t even speak to him. And what if Pierre’s memories had fooled him, and the man in front of him wasn’t even Andrei at all? What if-

Meanwhile, as Pierre’s fears mounted, the smallest hint of a smile appeared at the corner of the dark-haired man’s lips. He saw the heat rising to Pierre’s cheeks and shook his head. _Cute_, he thought before returning his attention to his book. He went back to his reading, but only for a brief moment.

Because then Pierre knocked a book off the table.

_Oh, fuck_. The book thudded to the floor, some heavy philosophical tome, and Pierre managed to become even more embarrassed. He saw Andrei startle and close his book, and Pierre cringed inwardly. The other man picked up the book, with two hands, and turned to Pierre.

“I believe this is yours,” he said, his voice hushed. Pierre couldn’t decipher if the expression on his face was one of annoyance or amusement, or perhaps some mix of the too.

“Oh, yes, it’s- I didn’t mean to- I…” Pierre winced when his voice came out much louder than he expected or intended, and he made a conscious effort to bring it down when he spoke again. After he regained his composure, or as close to composure as such an awkward man could manage. “Yes, thank you.” Andrei only nodded at him; for some reason Pierre took this as a cue to speak again. “I- I’m Pierre.”

Andrei was looking at him funny, but then again, most people looked at Pierre funny. “Andrew.”

“You look familiar,” Pierre blurted. Immediately regretting it, he looked away and pushed his glasses up on his face. Well, at least he would find out if Andrei- Andrew, this time- remembered.

“Oh, I don’t believe we met.”

Pierre felt like he had been hit by a truck. He should have been expecting it. They didn’t always remember, either of them. He should have seen this coming; part of him _did_ see it coming. Why did it still hurt so badly? It was like this every time his dear friend couldn’t remember him.

“Oh, my bad,” he said quickly.

Andrew smiled at him, a sad sort of half-smile. Of course, even if he didn’t remember, he hadn’t changed too much. “It’s alright.” Andrew found himself, in some strange sort of way, charmed by this large man- Pierre, his name was Pierre- and his awkwardness.

Pierre smiled back. “Would you like to get lunch?” He didn’t know what made him ask that. But he wanted to be able to see him again. Perhaps he would remember, eventually, if he had Pierre to try to remind him. Hopefully. Or perhaps they would just have to do this like normal people.

A moment passed, and Pierre’s smile faded. Had he offended him, somehow? He relaxed when Andrew finally spoke. “Aren’t you… busy? You’ve got a lot going on over there.” He gestured to the papers and books and computer Pierre had in front of him.

“I can’t focus,” he confessed. The reason remained unspoken.

“Then… alright.”

Pierre’s face lit up. He stood up, too quickly, and hit his knee on the table. He winced.

“Careful,” Andrew murmured.

Pierre shook his head, still smiling despite it. “Come on, let’s go.”


	2. Chapter 2

_St. Petersburg, Russia_  
_ 1805_

Upon returning to Russia from France, there was a handful of people who Pierre couldn’t wait to see again. First on this list was Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, his dearest friend. They had exchanged letters while he was abroad, but Pierre had almost forgotten the lines and details of the older man’s face. _Almost_; of course he could never forget Prince Andrei entirely. Never.

Pierre knew he would see Andrei at Anna Pavlovna’s soiree, which was to be his first time in society since returning to Russia. He didn’t even know what to expect other than he would most likely make a fool of himself in some way or another.

When Pierre arrived, Prince Andrei was already there, with his charming, pregnant little wife. The princess was chattering away with other guests, and Andrei looked as unamused as Pierre had ever seen him. Pierre entered and promptly made an oaf of himself, spilling some poor woman’s drink.

“O-oh, god, I’m so sorry, madame,” he stammered. “How clumsy of me, I- I apologize.” The woman only shook her head, glaring at him, and walked away without a word. As she walked off, Pierre’s gaze fell upon Andrei. Anna Pavlovna, the hostess, greeted him with only a nod, but Pierre did not even take his eyes off of Andrei. Andrei’s wife said something to him, and the prince turned away from her. Pierre quickly made his way over and grabbed his friend’s arm.

Andrei scowled, about to express frustration with whoever it was that had taken his arm, turned to Pierre and smiled. He was not a man who smiled often, but on occasions such as this with his dear friend before him, a rare and bright smile lit up his handsome face. “Pierre, old friend,” he greeted. “So you are in high society now?”

Pierre chuckled and smiled at Andrei warmly. “Something like that.” He squeezed his friend’s arm gently. Pierre didn’t know why he gravitated to Andrei so strongly, but he always found himself by the older man’s side. Perhaps he always would. “May I come to yours for supper this evening?”

“No,” Andrei joked, laughing. He shook his head. “Yes, of course you may.”

“And how is your wife?”

“She is…” Andrei sighed and glanced over at Liza, who was still talking with other guests. About some frivolous nonsense, no doubt, he thought to himself. “She is well,” he said simply.

It was a vague answer, but Pierre knew Andrei and how he could be, and so he was satisfied with it. Soon after, Pierre found himself in an impassioned conversation about Napoleon. The hostess and all of the guests looked on in horror. Andrei glanced between Pierre and the viscount and Anna Pavlovna, smiling a bit. Even when Pierre was making a fool of himself- as he was now, and as he often did- Andrei found himself appreciating and even envying his younger friend’s passion.

As more of the crowd became more critical of him, Pierre looked overwhelmed. Oh, he had done it again, hadn’t he? “Well, I…” He smiled apologetically, unable to find anything appropriate to say to mend any of this now. Pierre and the audience he had gathered were both silent for a moment, until Andrei stepped in.

Of course. Where would Pierre be without Andrei? He smiled at his friend gratefully as he listened to him trying to salvage something out of all that Pierre had said, and rose to leave when he had made his case. Pierre turned to him and smiled, mouthing a silent “thank you” to him, a bit red in the face. When Andrei finished speaking, Prince Ippolit Kuragin got to his feet and began to tell some story. Pierre didn’t pay much attention to it, but he was grateful for the diversion from his foolishness.

After the soirée ended, Pierre went to Andrei’s. They talked in Andrei’s study, about how Pierre had scandalized Anna Pavlovna and Pierre’s future plans, of which he had none, and of Andrei’s going off to the war. To think that Pierre had only just returned to Russia, and now his dearest friend was going to the front. In that moment, it seemed that the two of them would never quite be on the same page.

“What makes you go to war?” Pierre asked. If Andrei was leaving, he needed to know why. “Surely you don’t think Napoleon is the devil like the rest of them.”

“No, I don’t care about that.”

“Then why?” he pressed.

“I don’t know. I have to. There’s nothing for me here, Pierre. I can’t stand any of this any longer.”

Just then the Princess Bolkonskaya entered the room, and she and Pierre spoke about her husband’s encroaching departure. Pierre should not have been so surprised that she was as unhappy about it as he was; she had more of a right to be, after all. Andrei was her husband, not his. Soon, the conversation became one no longer for Pierre: a conversation between husband and wife. Or, rather, an argument between them. The princess became upset over her husband’s coldness, and Pierre couldn’t blame her for that. He knew how she felt, how it was to be shut out or treated coldly by this man he cared for (loved?) so, even if he understood better than Liza Andrei’s reasons for it. Eventually, only after Pierre made a failed attempt at comfort, the argument ended and Liza left the two friends to sit in silence.

“Let’s have supper,” Andrei decided finally, and the two men went to the dining room. They sat at the table together, and Andrei, unable to contain some apparent irritation within himself, launched into a long speech. “Never marry, Pierre,” he began. “Don’t marry until you’re certain there’s nothing left for you to do; otherwise you’ll lose so much.” Pierre stared at Andrei, and the older man went on.  
“My wife is a wonderful woman, but I’d give anything not to be married to her.” And Andrei talked about how frivolous and vain women were, and complained of the triviality of society, and how his life was ruined and there was not and could be nothing left for him.

“I don’t understand,” Pierre said eventually, “how you, of all people, could think that your life is a wasted life. You have everything before you, Andrei; you…” He didn’t finish, but he didn’t need to for his point to have gotten across. To Pierre, Andrei was the best man one could be; he was everything Pierre was not and he adored him.

Prince Andrei shook his head. “Enough about me. Let’s talk about you, dear friend.” He put on a strained smile.

“Me? Well, I’m- I’m a bastard, what could I possibly… I know I want to do something. But I haven’t a clue where to begin.”

“Well, one piece of advice: stop going out with Kuragin and that crowd. It doesn’t suit you.”

“But…” Pierre frowned. “No, I’ve been thinking about that myself, and you’re right. He invited me tonight, but I won’t go.”

“Promise?” Andrei asked.

“Word of honor.”

Of course, Pierre did find himself at Kuragin’s that night, after he left Andrei’s. There was much drinking, per usual; Dolokhov dangling out of a window while drinking a whole bottle of rum. There was a bear, and a policeman, and Pierre couldn’t recall the events well the next morning but he was embarrassed to have partaken in them. And to think, he promised Andrei he wouldn’t even go around there.

The next day, Pierre had to travel to Moscow to visit his ailing father, the old Count Bezukhov. The old count was on his deathbed; Pierre understood that well enough, and so did Prince Vassily Kuragin. As the count’s illegitimate son, Pierre didn’t stand to inherit anything.

Yet somehow- and much to Vassily’s chagrin- he did. The whole Bezukhov estate, no less.

As Pierre was visiting his ailing father, and visiting the Rostovs- it was the countess’s name day, and Natasha’s, and of course he had to visit that kind family and that radiant young girl- Prince Andrei was saying his goodbyes. He brought his pregnant wife to Bald Hills to stay with his father and sister, a decision which the princess was not in the least happy about. He bid farewell to her, and to his father, and to Princess Marya. Andrei took the icon Marya gave him, wearing it around his neck despite not being a religious man. And then, just as soon as he had arrived, Andrei left.

The awkward, bumbling Pierre was now Count Bezukhov, and Prince Andrei Bolkonsky was off to war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any feedback is greatly appreciated! Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names in this can be confusing, so:  
Andrea Buoncuore- Andrei Bolkonsky  
Pietro Beneventi- Pierre Bezukhov  
Natalia Rivera- Natasha Rostova  
Basilio Castiglione- Vassily Kuragin  
Antonio- Anatole  
Ileana- Hélène

_Rome, Italy_   
_ 1942_

The middle of a war, Andrea thought, was hardly the time for an extravagant party such as this. The Allies could march in at any time, or, God forbid, bomb the hell out of the city. And yet, here they were, drinking fine white wine like things weren’t a living hell.

The ball was thrown by the king himself, Victor Emmanuel III, who perhaps thought that everyone could use a little reprieve. Andrea Buoncuore, as a high-ranking official in the _Regio Esercito_\- the Royal Army- was obligated to attend. The king, in all reality, wasn’t much involved with military business, despite being Commander-in-Chief. In practice, the Prime Minister organized most military affairs. Benito Mussolini, a man who Andrei knew and didn’t much care for, but had to answer to. Who everyone in Italy answered to.

The party was attended, of course, by the elite of Roman society, most of whom Andrea had little to no regard for. The Castigliones were there, Basilio and two of his children- Antonio and Ileana. Basilio’s eldest son, whose name Andrea couldn’t bother remembering, was abroad in Germany or France or somewhere. Andrea had little regard for a man like Basilio Castiglione, or for his children. It was lucky that he could avoid all three of them for the whole evening. Andrea’s dear friend, Pietro, had somehow managed to find himself at the event, and even more miraculously had managed to refrain from making a fool of himself or worse. He didn’t recognize some of the other attendees until Pietro pointed them out to him- without actually introducing him to any of them, of course.

These attendees included the Rivera family. Pietro was acquainted with them, and had been for years, and according to him they had fallen on hard times as of late. Times couldn’t be that hard for them, Andrea thought, if they were still able to attend the ball. He didn’t voice this, because no sooner did it come into his mind than was his attention otherwise captivated.

Among the family that Pietro identified as the Riveras- the Rostovs, Andrea realized- stood the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He recognized her immediately. Her white gown contrasted with her dark skin beautifully. He watched her gazing about the room with her wide brown eyes. Natasha. She was here; he had found her again. But surely she didn’t remember him. These things always unfolded in the worst ways.

He grabbed his friend’s arm. “Pietro, look at her.” He gestured toward her in the most discreet way he could manage.

“Natalia Rivera,” Pietro told him, staring blankly.

“You know her, don’t you?” he asked. “Yes, you do. Will- will you introduce me, dear friend?”

Pietro looked confused by his friend’s sudden enthusiasm, and Andrea couldn’t particularly blame him. He scarcely cared about most people in these settings, but Pietro didn’t realize that this was different. The younger man blinked, but nodded. “Of course. Of course I will.”

“Thank you.”

Pietro led him over to Natalia, who was conversing with her family, and cleared his throat awkwardly. Natalia looked at him and smiled brightly.

“Oh, Pietro!” She kissed him three times on the cheek. “It’s so wonderful to see you here.”

He smiled warmly. “I wanted to introduce you to my friend,” he told her. “This is Andrea Buoncuore. Andrea, Natalia Rivera.”

“Oh, I…” Natalia stopped and stared at Andrea, and he back at her. They stayed like that for an eternity or several, until finally Natalia cleared her throat. “It’s a pleasure,” she said.

“Yes,” Andrea agreed, nearly breathless. “Yes, quite. Would you dance with me, _Signorina Rivera_?”

“I would love to.”

And so Andrea led her onto the floor, and put a hand on her waist, and the two of them danced. Neither of them said a word, though from how they gazed into each other’s eyes there was clearly much to be said between the two of them. Eventually, the dance ended, and Natalia was the one who spoke first.

“Andrei…” She grasped his hand. “Andrei.”

“I… Natasha. You’re _here_.”

She had tears in her eyes and stepped closer to him. “I’m here,” she echoed, smiling at him.

He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it softly. That was seemingly all it took for the tears welling in her eyes to start rolling down Natalia’s cheeks.

Pietro was watching as his two friends were, unbeknownst to him, reunited after far too long. He felt a sadness in his soul as he observed their shared happiness, though he couldn’t understand why. Andrea, however, was quite the opposite. There with Natalia, he seemed to have forgotten the discontent he held when the evening began and his displeasure with attending the party. He seemed to have even forgotten the war, and everything else. Reality would come back to him, eventually, but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t matter.


End file.
